


overwrite this constant void

by objectlesson



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur is a Footie Player, First Time, Goth/Jock Vibes, Humor, M/M, Merlin is a tattooer, Modern AU, Tattoo Shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Merlin is a goth, but he’s not acynic.He believes in love and all that. Still, he can’t help but being just atinybit bitter that his best friend is living the lesbian uHaul fantasy while he’s nursing a seven-month dry spell and tendonitis inbothhis wrists.And then, of course, there’s the metaphorical cherry on the metaphorical cake. Arthur fucking Pendragon and his fat ass and terrible tattoos.
Relationships: Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 83
Kudos: 355





	overwrite this constant void

**Author's Note:**

> WE'RE DOING IT LADS!!! So I have 9537593469 commissions to write and WIPs to finish but my brain said, what if we listen to the same TR/ST song on repeat for 2 days straight and reminisce aggressively about tattooing in London??? And instead of writing 9537593469 commissions I wrote a 13k long modern Merlin AU because it took me by the throat and would notttt let go. So here it is. I love this incarnation of these characters and will probably write more, so if you love it please tell me. 
> 
> Ok so, full disclosure: I am a tattooer. That is my job. Because of this I tend to HATE tattoo shop AUs because they're rarely accurate and I also think client/tattooer relationships are wildly unprofessional and the mere idea of an artist crossing a line with a client HORRIFIES me. I swore I'd never write one, but then I got into Merlin and it just sort of worked? for them? I think their power dynamic is already so weird in the show It felt fun to play with/subvert it a bit in this context and ANYWAY it was so fun to actually write in detail about tattooing and I had a blast!! 
> 
> Ok more disclosure: this story is so mean! It makes fun of tattoos that are widely considered stupid in the industry! I apologize if you have a Roman numeral tattoo!!! I am not as judgmental and as Merlin and Morgana are in this story but your artist very well could be and I'm sorry for sharing this glimpse into the way we talk shit when clients aren't around. 
> 
> LASTLY! I did art for this on tumblr so check out the tag "tattoo shop au" on alienfuckeronmain for doodles of Merlin in a STS era AFI shirt with sleeve tattoos. Huge thank you to Jen for the beta job <3 
> 
> ENJOY!!

—-

Merlin probably _wouldn’t_ have developed a stupid, embarrassing, self-destructive crush on his most _basic_ straight-guy client if Morgana hadn’t fucking abandoned him one fucking month before Christmas. But she _did,_ because she’s _awful,_ so he’s resorting to his worst habits and turning into the version of himself he never _really_ left behind in 6th form. The version of himself who gets his kicks lusting after wildly unattainable and tragically simple footie players who sort of bully him. He _would_ be angry at Morgana for making him regress to such tragic depths, but she’s so incandescently happy it’s easier to just wallow in self-pity over it, instead. 

She has a new girlfriend, and Merlin is fairly certain she’s the real deal (though he can’t be sure because lesbians _always_ act like it’s the real deal). He’s not sure he’s ever seen Morgana so smitten, though, and they’ve been roommates ever since they graduated uni together five years ago. The girl’s name is Gwen, and she’s both extremely pretty and extremely nice, which is unusual for Morgana, who usually goes for girls just like her: rough around the edges, witchy, leather jackets and cigarette smoke, perfectly capable of and willing to kill a man, etc. But Gwen wears peasant blouses and floor-length skirts and works at a fucking bakery. She always hugs Merlin when she sees him and she smells like brown sugar and cinnamon and she unclogged their drain with an untwisted coat hanger one time while Morgana watched with literal heart eyes and Merlin’s been pretty sure she’s The One ever since. 

As much as he _likes_ her, though, she also monopolizes _all_ of Morgana’s time, even at the _shop_. She comes in nearly every day, bringing Morgana her lunch between clients since her work is just around the corner and their breaks coincide. They sit in the back sharing freshly baked baguettes with olive oil, giggling and canoodling and feeding each other, watching YouTube videos and laughing so hard sometimes that Merlin can hear the echo up front, even over the buzz of his loudest coil machine. And it’s cute. It’s great. He's super happy for Morgana, really, and she’s actually easier to live and work with when she’s in a good mood, so. It’s not _all_ complaints.

It’s just that Merlin doesn’t really _have_ friends save for her, so things have gotten rather lonely as a result. Not _only_ does she spend all her free time during the work day with Gwen, she _also_ sees her _after_ work, too. Gwen comes over and sleeps at their flat nearly every night, and the time Merlin _used_ to spend watching Buffy reruns with Morgana and talking shit about their weirdest clients while they iced their wrists he _now_ spends with headphones on, trying his hardest _not_ to hear the endless buzz of a hitachi magic wand coming from Morgana’s room. 

It’s fine. It’s just. It’s a bit excessive. And Merlin doesn’t anticipate it _changing_ any time soon…in fact, their relationship only seems like it’s getting more serious. Just the other night, Gwen was doling them both out bowls of takeaway while Morgana rifled through the silverware drawer, coming up with two forks. “This is your fave, right, babe?” she said, handing Gwen one. Then Gwen was like, “Aw, yes, you remembered,” and shot her the most saccharine look _ever_ while Merlin watched suspiciously from the other room. They were _very,_ very serious. Serious enough for Gwen to have a favorite fork at their fucking flat and for Morgana to know which one it was and for them to go gooey-eyed over it. Merlin was fairly certain this could only mean one thing: soon, Morgana was going to move out from here and in with Gwen. Which meant he’d be stuck trying to find a replacement for her empty room _around the holidays._ And like, he’s a goth, but he’s not a _cynic._ He believes in love and all that. Still, he can’t help feeling just a _tiny_ bit bitter that his best friend is living the lesbian uHaul fantasy while he’s nursing a seven-month dry spell and tendonitis in _both_ his wrists. 

And then, of course, there is the metaphorical cherry on the metaphorical cake: Arthur fucking Pendragon and his fat ass and terrible tattoos.

—-

The first time he comes into the shop, it’s a slow, drizzly Wednesday, and he tracks mud all over the floor with his cleats. Merlin looks up from sketching as he very noisily rifles through the portfolios at the counter, taking up so much fucking space it would be impossible to ignore him even if he _wasn’t_ infuriatingly attractive. 

But, of course, he is. Merlin is nursing a seven-month dry spell and tendonitis in both wrists, and this has, unfortunately, made him very weak. He is powerless against this man and his rain-wet red hoodie and silky footie shorts and ass so terrifically pert and defined that Merlin can effortlessly make out the shape of it through his jersey as he shifts his weight, wandering around the front of the shop _touching_ everything quite rudely. Merlin narrows his eyes. “Hello, can I help you?” he says, brushing graphite and eraser dust off his hands and standing. 

“Hello there. My name is Arthur,” he says, offering a hand and gripping Merlin’s so tightly as he shakes it that the pressure makes his knuckles grind together. “I want a tattoo.” 

“Um. Well,” Merlin says, wincing and withering in his fierce, confident blue gaze. “You’ve come to the right place.” And it’s a lie, really. Dragonlord Ink is a high-end specialty blackwork shop in the heart of Bloomsbury. There are _plenty_ of shitty walk-in spots in Camden, if you’re looking for that sort of thing. And Merlin is almost _certain_ Arthur is. And yet, he doesn't turn him away. This is because he’s very pleasant to behold, and Merlin is lonely, and it’s ugly and grey and dirty outside, and he had a cancellation so he’s in a rotten mood. “What are you looking to get?” 

“Roman numerals of my birthdate. Here, on my chest,” Arthur says matter of factly and with a glaring lack of shame as he unzips his hoodie and hooks his broad-knuckled fingers into the neck of his jersey to tug it down and show the plane of skin beneath his clavicle. Merlin blinks, realizing it sort of burns his eyes to look at him dead on. 

“Of your own birthday,” Merlin repeats, leaning closer to study Arthur’s chest, even though he really shouldn’t and it’s entirely unprofessional and he doesn’t want to do a fucking roman numeral tattoo. He _hates_ roman numeral tattoos. “Sick,” he lies, raising his eyebrows and nodding enthusiastically. He hopes it doesn't seem like he’s mocking Arthur, even though he sort of is. “How big?”

Arthur makes a face that is somewhere between an affronted grimace and a smirk. “I don’t _know,”_ he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s why I came _here,_ to talk to a professional. You _are_ a professional, right? Not some shopgirl who takes the appointments down over the phone?” 

Merlin makes a face, too shocked to even be properly furious that he’s being treated this way by some virgin-skinned _jock_ in muddy _cleats. “_ ”I’ve been tattooing for six years,” he says cooly. Or, what he hopes is cooly. “My work has been featured in magazines. I booked out a guest spot in Germany last spring. I have over thirty thousand Instagram followers.” 

“Oh,” Arthur says, picking up an obsidian skull from the counter and examining it without looking up. “Is that a lot? I don't really _do_ Instagram.” 

“It’s a lot,” Merlin snaps, hating how defensive he sounds. Any other day, he would just _roll his eyes,_ exchange an exasperated look with Morgana,and pass a client like this off onto one of the shop apprentices so he didn't have to think about him ever again. But Morgana is in the back with Gwen right now, and _both_ of the apprentices are with clients already. He’s literally the only person in the shop not tattooing in this moment because fate is apparently a cruel and fickle mistress who _wants_ to dangle blond jocks in front of him, just out of reach. Merlin tries to make peace with this. He studies Arthur’s stately profile and chews the inside of his cheek, thinking about how unfair it is that so very many men who are so nice to look at _also_ get to act like complete prats. 

Arthur’s gaze flickers up to Merlin’s, and he feels his stomach drop when their eyes lock. “Well, perhaps you and your thirty thousand Instagram followers can tell me how big I should get this tattoo. It’s my first, so I don’t want it to be _huge._ But I don’t want it to look pitiful and girly either. Something in between—strong, and noticeable, but not, like—,” he makes a gesture with his hands that is apparently supposed to _mean_ something. It’s been a very long time since Merlin dealt regularly with first-timers and walk-ins because he’s the sort of artist collectors and very tattooed people seek out. So, he has no idea what Arthur is trying to convey. 

“Got it,” he says anyway, grabbing the clipboard full of consent forms and thrusting it into Arthur’s chest over the counter. “Shop minimum is a hundred quid, this should be around that. Fill out that paperwork for me, and I’ll set up.” 

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him and presses his lips together. He has terribly good lips. They’re chapped and red and big and expressive, and Merlin should probably be worried about the fact he’s noticing all of this and cataloging it for later. He wants to _forget_ Arthur the minute he leaves with his tattoo, but he already _knows_ he's going to think about him again, later, in the privacy of his own room. “ _You’re_ going to be tattooing me? You’re not like, booked into the next year? I hear _some_ tattoo artists with big Instagram followings have waiting lists.” 

“Well, lucky for you, I had a cancellation,” Merlin admits, raking a hand through his hair and turning on his heel to stalk back to his station, Docs squeaking against the tile. “Let me know if you have any questions about that form.” 

It seems Arthur does not have any questions, though he _does_ grumble a bit about the (perfectly standard) price. Merlin wraps his bottles and bags his machines, holding off on tubes and needles until he gets a better idea of how big this tattoo is going to be, even though he’s pretty sure he knows _exactly_ what it’s going to look like. Blokes like Arthur are all the same: thinking they’re tough shit, that they’re _original,_ that having some roman numerals on their chest will get them girls or respect or cred or _something._ But they _always_ wince their way through the actual process and rarely commit to anything bigger than palm-sized. Of course, after it’s over, they’re ecstatic and proud of themselves beyond all reason, suddenly an expert on body art as they frantically discuss the future tattoos they’re already planning on getting. There’s a whole weird bro-code involved in tattooing this sort of guy, and Merlin has been able to bypass it for the most part—his career has had a fairly sharp trajectory since he completed his apprenticeship, and he’s never had to take on too many clients who weren’t looking to get tattooed in his very specific and specialized style. He wonders what it says about him, that he’s tattooing Arthur when he definitely doesn’t _have to._ Nothing good, he’s certain of it. 

But instead of backing out of it and shafting the appointment onto someone else’s workday, he takes Arthur’s paperwork once he’s finished it, mocks up the design in less than a minute (Arthur’s birthday reveals he’s just about to turn twenty-nine and is a December Sagittarius, _gross_ ),and runs a stencil through the thermal transfer machine. “Okay,” he says, sighing and sort of hating himself for his own desperation. “Come on back.” 

Immediately, Arthur strips off his shirt and hoodie in a single motion, and dumps them onto Morgana’s unoccupied chair. Then he narrows his eyes at Merlin carefully, like he _knows_ he’s gay and he _knows_ he finds him attractive and he’s _trying_ to catch him in the act of ogling his chest. Merlin stares back blankly, gaze cold and clinical because at the end of the day, he _is_ a professional, and he _does_ deal with bodies all day every day without getting weird about it. It doesn’t matter that Arthur is fucking _perfect_ —pale and built without being overtly buff, stomach and hips soft over the stretch of muscle so Merlin could make a fist in him, if he tried. It doesn't _matter_ because he’s at _work,_ not at some club in Soho after a gin and tonic or two. “Right, then,” he says, intaking a sharp breath and drumming his nails on his massage table before handing off the stencil. “How does this look?” 

Arthur scratches his pectoral muscle with one hand as he peers down, brows knit critically. “A little smaller than I imagined,” he says, shrugging. “You don't think it should be bigger?” 

“You asked for my professional opinion regarding size,” Merlin argues, folding his gloved hands in front of him. “Most men think they’re bigger than they actually are and overestimate how thick they want their lettering. We can always go bigger, but let’s start here. I can put the stencil on, and you can check it out in the mirror and see for yourself.” 

Arthur regards him, clearly trying to puzzle through whether or not he’s been insulted. He relents, though, and sits down on the table, close enough Merlin can feel the heat from his body, breathe in the ghost of rain in his clothes. “Fine,” he says, watching Merlin get a disposable razor out of his station and wet a paper towel in preparation to shave the soon-to-be tattooed stitch of skin. “What’s your name? Rather arrogant, don’t you think, that you introduced yourself to me using your Instagram follower count and not your name.” 

Merlin grins through grit teeth and shakes his head as he shaves Arthur’s chest, just beneath the pretty jut of his collar bone. He smells like spearmint and old spice, and it’s dizzying. It brings back locker room memories of being shoved against the wall and getting shamefully hard over it. “My name is Merlin,” he says, dabbing the newly smooth skin down with alcohol to sterilize it. Arthur’s breath catches at the cold. “And I don’t think it’s arrogant to list your credentials to someone who is questioning them.” 

Surprisingly, Arthur laughs at that, the rumble of it vibrating under Merlin’s fingers. “Alright then, fair,” he says, grinning. Merlin steals a look at his smile—it’s a lovely thing, boyish and big, overtaking so much of his face it chases away the lines that framed his mouth before, shaving years away so he seems younger. In spite of himself, Merlin smiles back. “My father doesn't approve of tattoos,” Arthur says then. “And as much as I think he’s full of shit for it, there’s still a part of me that’s—I don’t know. Wary. I wanted to go to a reputable, expensive shop, not a tourist trap, you know. So. I really _am_ glad I’m in capable hands.” 

That prickles in Merlin’s chest a bit, colors his cheeks. “Quite capable,” he promises as he leans back and grabs his Stencil Stuff. “I’ve been told I have a light touch. Which you’ll need, with a sensitive spot like this.” 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. I have a high pain tolerance,” Arthur assures him, like they all do. 

Merlin scoffs. “We’ll see.” 

The rest of the afternoon is a bit of a blur. Merlin remembers applying the stencil, getting the green light, and doing the tattoo, appalled at the way his hands were shaking. Everything comes out perfect—it’s a straightforward design, and Arthur sits like a rock, which is somewhat unexpected but ultimately preferable to the alternative. Morgana comes wandering back in after her lunch break and peeks over his shoulder while he's in the middle of it, shooting him a look and saying, “Roman numerals?! What a flashback,” in a very high and measured voice. 

“Are you saying my tattoo idea is dated?” Arthur asks from the table, eyes closed and socked ankles crossed because Merlin made him take his cleats off before lying down. 

“I’m saying it’s _vintage,”_ Morgana quips cheerfully, eyebrows raised, expression bemused. Normally, if either of them were doing a tattoo they weren’t into, there would be _much_ room for exchanged glances and rolled eyes, but Merlin is just—not feeling it, today. It’s something about Arthur’s sincerity, his strange charm. Or maybe just his perfect ass, his soft blond hair like spun gold against the black faux leather of the headrest. Merlin cannot be sure, but it’s a weird tattooing experience, to say the least. He finishes quickly but continues to touch up the lines long after what he might normally do, pitifully desperate to keep touching Arthur Pendragon, fingers ghosting over his irritated skin. Arthur studies him while he works, and he _feels_ the pressure, _wants_ to be perfect, even though this particular tattoo is so tragically, inarguably simple compared to his usual wares that there’s no fucking way he could mess up. 

Once it’s finished, he sprays Bactine on and wraps it in cellophane. “Go check it out,” he says, flexing his Vaseline-shiny fingers, tidying the table as Arthur stands. He leaves an imprint of his body and an opaque, white sheen of sweat on the black faux leather, and something inside Merlin clenches to behold it. 

“Sick,” Arthur says as he examines himself in the mirror. He sounds apathetic, but his blue eyes are twinkling, that violent, open wound of a smile threatening to burst forth. Merlin chews his own smug smirk into submission and peels off his gloves. 

“Touch-ups are free. Here’s an aftercare sheet,” he says, trying to hand it off. Instead of just simply taking the paper, though, Arthur links their fingers instead, making a brief fist with Merlin before shifting it easily into a firm handshake. It’s probably the sort of straight-guy thing they all know how to do with effortless (and meaningless) grace, but it leaves Merlin’s mouth dry, his palm sweaty. 

“Thank you,” Arthur says, brows arched into earnest half-moon curves. Merlin swallows thickly. “Really.” 

“It’s no problem at all,” Merlin promises. “Just doing my job.” 

Morgana snorts into her light table at that, though, and Merlin knows—he _knows_ he’s fucked. 

Still, he tries hard to remind himself that this was a weird one-off incident and will never happen again. Men like Arthur Pendragon don't get tattooed frequently, so it’s likely that was the first and last time he’ll ever set foot in Dragonlord Ink. And it’s _fine_ it happened because it’ll never happen again. Merlin suffered an incidental moment of weakness and did a stupid tattoo just to see a pretty jock shirtless because he was lonely and his flatmate/best friend is gonna move out any day now and leave him alone forever. It was an embarrassing but totally and understandably human thing to do. He can forgive himself. Arthur left an excellent tip, so it was _far_ from a total loss. 

But just when Merlin is about to stop imagining the smell of spearmint and old spice and footie field before he drifts off to sleep every night, Arthur Fucking Pendragon shows up again, even more smiley and golden and glorious than the first time. 

He wants a latitude and longitude coordinate just below his elbow ditch because of fucking _course_ he does. Merlin is very booked that day and doesn't have availability for even a small tattoo until several hours later, but instead of allowing one of the apprentices to do it, Arthur shrugs and says he’ll come back. Merlin is convinced he won’t until he _does,_ with McDonald’s for both of them, the smell of salt and grease clinging to his hair like he spent the whole time just _sitting_ in a fast-food joint, waiting. Merlin almost jacks off in the bathroom after the fact but eventually decides that’s too low, even for him. 

Arthur comes back a few days later for the word _strength_ in script above one knee. And then, on a whim the next day, the word _honor_ over the other. Merlin doesn't really have time for either, and he _hates_ custom lettering, but script is quick to crank out, so he manages to sandwich one between longer tattoos and then stays late for the other. He hates himself the whole time but not enough to _stop._ Plus, Arthur squirms a bit at these ones, and that is oddly satisfying. 

Then the following week, Arthur makes an appointment to get the Manchester United symbol on the back of his calf, in full color. It’s like he is _deliberately_ going through the playbook of cliche tattoos and torturing Merlin by insisting he do every single one, even though it’s far below his skill level and still…. _still_ Merlin wants him. Wants him _terribly._ So much it makes him sick, every fucking time he comes in. Wants him so much it’s legitimately distracting. 

Predictably, Morgana is onto him. As he dutifully packs red ink into the carefully lined Man U red devil, she _stares,_ kohl-lined eyes narrowed and shooting daggers of unbridled judgement into the back of his neck that make him prickle and color. He _knows_ it’s not his MO to crank out a handful of shitty, easy, stupid walk-in tattoos between his regular appointments. He _knows_ she’s well aware he’s got some ulterior motive. But even _Morgana_ isn’t privy to his terrible weakness for stupid blond footie boys with daddy issues, so she’s probably got harebrained theories of her own she’s spinning in silence. He has considered lying or inventing something to throw her off his trail, but ultimately decides it’s better to just pretend he doesn’t notice her staring until the curiosity kills her and she eventually just asks him point-blank. Until then, he will pretend like nothing out of the ordinary is happening _at all._

—-

When she _does_ bring it up, her inquiry is so far from the mark that he doesn’t even know what she’s talking about, at first. 

They’re both in the kitchen rinsing dishes while Gwen digs through their DVD collection in the living room for something they can all watch together, and Merlin is zoning out thinking about Arthur’s pretty smile when Morgana jabs one of her fingers into the small of his back, making him jump. “Look. I wasn’t going to bring it up because it’s not really my business. But…Gwen and I have been talking future plans, and I thought maybe I should touch base with you before I make any decisions.” 

He rounds on her, brows arched in incredulity. “What?! Bring what up?” 

“Merlin,” she says quietly, cocking her head, some of her bottle-black hair coming down from its hasty, messy bun to frame her angular face. There’s something _worried_ about the shape of her mouth, and it puts Merlin on edge. “Are you in some sort of trouble? Do you need financial help?” she finally asks. 

He stares at her. He wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but money was not even _close_ to his first guess. “No! What are you talking about?” 

She chews her lip and studies him like she thinks he’s lying. “Do you _really_ think I haven’t noticed you doing awful tattoos?! You don’t _have_ to do that shit, you have dedicated clientele who come to you for your original art! They have for years! I can’t _imagine_ why you’d be taking on those sorts of appointments if you didn’t need the money. Especially after we _agreed_ it was best for the shop if we gave the apprentices all the walk-ins for low-stakes line-work practice.” 

He stares at her, apparently wide-eyed enough that she feels the need to further clarify. Her gaze softens, but only a bit. “Look. Your business is your business, I get that. You don’t have to tell me what's going on if you don’t want to, but you should know I’m considering moving out in the next couple of months and getting a flat with Gwen in Whitechapel, and you’re my best friend so I need to know you’re _okay._ And just. It’s worrisome, when like _four_ times in the last few weeks you’ve poached clients from the apprentices, and they’re—well. They came to me, and I thought I’d talk to you first to see what was up.” 

_Oh—_ so this _is_ about Arthur, Merlin realizes, cheeks suddenly hot. Mordred and Elena _ratted_ on him. 

“Poaching clients?! Morgana. It’s _one_ guy. It all started because he came in on a shitty day when I had a cancellation and everyone else was working. I did it because I was bored and also—well, because I wanted to see him with his shirt off, if m’honest, but that’s really beside the point. Since then, he’s _come back_ a few timesbecause he thinks I’m like _his artist_ and that I do ‘brilliant work’ and he doesn’t ‘trust’ anyone else and has no fucking idea that literally any guy with a garage and a shit machine could do these tattoos. He won’t let the apprentices touch him, trust me, I’ve been trying to get rid of him for weeks.”

Over the course of this speech, Morgana goes on some manner of facial journey, volleying from expression to expression, eyes flashing. “It’s the _same guy?”_ she asks once he’s finished, and it occurs to him she’s _actually_ missed the fact that every stupid tattoo he’s cranked out this month was on Arthur. He doesn't know why he’s surprised, Morgana is such a lesbian she legitimately cannot tell most men apart. She’s always mixing up blond actors and calling her male clients by the wrong names. Merlin thinks it’s sort of admirable, actually, to care so very little. 

“Yep. Arthur Pendragon. Rich footie bloke, on a tattoo bender to piss off his shitty dad even though he's almost thirty. I _wish_ I could pass him off on Mordred or Elena, but he’s not having it. I’m his guy,” Merlin explains, cheeks coloring. He’s not lying, not exactly, but he perhaps _hasn’t_ tried everything in his power to dump Arthur in someone else’s lap. They've been feeble attempts at best, but it’s not his _fault._ Arthur tips well and smells better and Merlin has never claimed to be an honorable or dignified artist. 

Morgana chokes out a relieved laugh, laying one of her hands over her chest and throwing her head back. “Oh my god, Merlin. I’m _so_ glad you don’t have a secret gambling problem or something. I was really worried. But _god,_ you poor thing, you were doing a _sports_ tattoo the other day! You must be miserable.” 

Merlin shrugs, mouth twisting into a very small smile. “Money is money, I don’t know. Plus, I don’t want to have an _ego_ about tattooing…didn’t we say we’d never turn into those asshole celebrity tattooers who think they’re too good for an infinity sign?” 

Morgana continues to wheeze with laughter, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Yes, yes we did. And I can’t say I blame you…if some girl came to me for a _breathe_ tattoo and decided I was the only artist she trusted, I’d probably find a way to make it work. If she was nice.” 

“I don’t know if Arthur’s _nice,_ necessarily,” Merlin admits with a shrug. “But I like him well enough.” 

“Who?” Gwen says brightly as she breezes into the kitchen with her and Morgana’s wine glasses to refill. “The hot blondie with the bootie Merlin is in love with?” 

“In love?!” Merlin sputters, dropping a mason jar into the sink with an alarming clatter. 

“Blondie with a _bootie_?!” Morgana shrieks, looking scandalized. “Gwen!” 

Gwen just shrugs, topping off their glasses with the rest of the bottle of red they’re all splitting. “Not gonna lie, I’ve _definitely_ noticed him. Or, noticed Merlin _very_ generously staying late and sacrificing breaks to tattoo him.” 

Morgana gasps, hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Merlin. Are you _dating_ this _client?!”_

 _“No!”_ Merlin spits out, further mussing his own hair and grabbing another, unopened bottle of wine and the corkscrew since it’s looking like that sort of night. “He’s a straight, spoiled, rich brat. _Very_ easy on the eyes, I will admit, but I suspect if I continue to litter his skin in _script_ and _logos_ and _roman numerals_ , he’ll probably lose his appeal.” 

“Oh my god,” Morgana mumbles, clucking her tongue and looping an arm around Gwen’s waist. “He can’t be _that_ good-looking. I _really_ couldn’t tell it was the same guy.” 

“It’s fine, baby” Gwen says sweetly, cupping Morgana’s face and thumbing over her cheeks. “It’s because all men look the same to you. Remember when you thought Ryan Gosling played the main character in _The Wolf of Wall Street?”_

 _“_ I still don’t know who it actually is. Or what Ryan Gosling looks like,” Morgana says wistfully. And maybe this is foreplay for them or something because then they’re kissing, and Merlin feels awkward and forgotten and like he’s being invasive, even though _he_ was just standing here, and _they_ were the ones who decided to make out mid-conversation. 

“Okay, then, I’m just going to, um. Leave. Yes. With this entire bottle of wine,” he says, grabbing it by the neck and side-stepping away, brows raised. He ends up forgoing Gwen’s DVD search and starting the musical episode of Buffy in the living room all by himself for comfort, and it’s another _hour_ before Gwen and Morgana join him, in PJs with their hair wet from a shower. He frowns. He wishes _he_ had a boyfriend to snog in the kitchen and have shower sex with. 

“Merlin,” Morgana says as she drops into the couch next to him, letting her head drift to his shoulder, patchouli shampoo making him sneeze. “Now that I know you’re not in dire financial straits, trying to secretly pay off a ruthless bookie or like, Jabba the Hut…how _would_ you feel about me moving in with Gwen sometime in the near future?” 

He pats her head and swirls his wine in his glass. “I’ve seen this coming for ages, to be fair,” he admits. “You two are basically _already_ living together, you're clearly in this for the long haul, I’m _happy_ for you. I am. M’gonna miss you, I guess, but like. I’ll absolutely manage without your hair clogging the drain.” 

She kisses his cheek, and he wipes it off, grimacing even though he loves her. “You’ll miss me?! You’re still going to see me every damn day at work.” 

“I know,” he says, shooting her a forced smile. “Honestly, it’ll be nice to walk around _without_ blasting music so I don’t hear anything unsavory. It'll be good for both of us.” 

Then she smiles at him, shifting away to cuddle up next to Gwen. “I won’t do it suddenly. We’re really only just starting to look at flats, and I’ll make sure I help find you someone to take my place so you’re not saddled with the rent all on your own.” 

“Well, thank you. I appreciate it,” he mumbles, throwing back the rest of his wine before pouring himself another glass. And he _should_ be relieved, he thinks. Everything is out in the open now. Morgana’s move, his weird, stupid, awful, crush on Arthur. But as he drinks himself dizzy, his throat tightens over something like loneliness, or at least the awareness of it looming in front of him, impending and impossible to avoid. So, he distracts himself by imagining Arthur Pendragon’s smile, instead. It definitely doesn’t help. 

—-

Merlin thinks far too often about Gwen just _saying_ out loud and with such certainty, “The hot blondie with the bootie Merlin is in love with.” _I’m not in love with him,_ he thinks just as often. So often, in fact, it’s probably suspect. He’s probably trying to convince himself of something only half-true. Hold himself back so that a dam does not break and flood the shop. Merlin _can’t_ be in love with Arthur—he hardly knows him. But maybe he’s aware, in his deepest most secret and shameful self of selves, that he _could_ fall in love with him, given the chance. 

It’s not just his beautiful lips or his godly ass or the fact that he’s objectively the hottest man Merlin has probably ever seen in his fucking life. He’s also weirdly _kind_ in a way that Merlin cannot pin down or steel himself against. Arthur is not _actually_ an asshole, not really. He only plays at being one. For example, after their first appointment, Arthur never comes to the shop empty-handed again. He learns Merlin’s Starbucks order and arrives with coffee, or sometimes food, Pret sandwiches or pastries from Gwen’s bakery. He also asks Merlin’s genuine opinion on tattoo placement, and even if he initially challenges a suggestion, he _does_ always eventually cave, defaulting to Merlin’s expertise like he trusts him with his body, with his skin, with his scars. 

He even buys a print of Merlin’s from the shop’s merch wall, a flash sheet with a castle, dragons, a mace, a knight in armor. Merlin suspects he doesn’t even _like_ his art and perhaps feels guilty for having him tattoo things so outside his wheelhouse all the time, but it moves him all the same, the way Arthur studies the designs with a furrowed brow, asks him why he likes medieval fantasy stuff so much. Merlin makes something up because he doesn’t know how to tell Arthur the embarrassing truth, which is that it’s because as a kid, he always crushed on the princes in fairy tales, and the aesthetic just sort of stuck after years of doodling unicorns on his class notes. 

Over the course of his appointments, Arthur slowly opens up about himself, too. He tells Merlin that his mum died having him, and that’s the real reason he wanted his birth date tattooed. He says he wishes he could meet her, that more than anything in the world he wants just a single memory of her, a lock of hair, a whiff of perfume, something soft and faded and hazy that he didn’t invent from pure longing. He complains about his strict father who won’t talk about her, how they’re fighting more and more the older Arthur gets, the more he tries to take control of his own life. He talks about the ways in which he attempts to set a good example for the lads on his footie team, how he wishes he’d studied more in uni instead of partying so much, how he worries that he doesn’t have any decent skills to fall back on save for his athleticism, how he fears what will happen if he ever injures himself or when he gets too old to play. Merlin listens thoughtfully and realizes in slow waves that Arthur is, at his core, very insecure. And even more importantly, he’s a very good person who tries his hardest to do the right thing. It seems that every one of his bristly bits or shortcomings is born from extreme, privilege-induced ignorance, not malice. He’s actually wonderful, beneath it all, and Merlin tells him so, while digging needles into his skin so it never seems _too_ soppy. Arthur always snorts and denies it or gets peculiarly quiet, gazing out the front window of the shop while Merlin’s machine buzzes away. 

After the Manchester United tattoo, Arthur books an appointment to get a sword on his forearm. “You can do it in your style, if you want,” he tells Merlin as he fills out the consent form, an old pro at this point as he checks off boxes without reading the bullet points. “Just not too big. Or girly. Make it look sick.” 

Merlin’s heart actually skips a beat as he considers this new and unexpected freedom. Maybe Arthur _does_ like his art, and the print purchase _wasn’t_ a weird pity-thing. He still draws the design up with restraint, though—he knows Arthur’s style now, and he would hate something too delicate or ornate, so Merlin tries his hardest to rein in his penchant for detailed filigree. When he finishes the design and hands it to Arthur, his throat is weirdly constricted, hands sweaty in his gloves as he waits for feedback. 

“It’s perfect,” Arthur says, flatly but softly, in the way his voice will sometimes get when he’s being sincere but doesn’t know how to _sound_ sincere. There’s no real warmth, just a lack of sarcasm, and it makes Merlin’s chest ache irritatingly, at how little of himself Arthur Pendragon willingly reveals. How bravely he protects his insides. How _much_ Merlin wishes he got to see more. “Let’s do it.”

Merlin nods curtly, takes a sip of the coffee Arthur brought him, and sets up his station. 

Preparing for a tattoo he’s actually designed himself feels like more of a ritual than his other sets ups, somehow. He meticulously wipes down his toolbox with Matacide before wrapping it in cellophane, making sure to smooth every bubble and fold it so it lays flush, smooth, perfect. Then he wraps his bottles, his power supply, his clip cord, going through the motions with his eyes downcast and focused, though he’s well aware that Arthur is _watching_ him intently from where he’s sitting, waiting. It makes the hairs prickle on the back of Merlin’s neck, his heart clutch and stutter in his chest. “Are you nervous for this one?” he asks. “It’s not any bigger than the others.” 

“M’not _nervous,”_ Arthur snaps. 

Merlin shrugs, holding the newly unwrapped needle up to the light so he can put a gentle bend in it before feeding it through the tube and popping it onto a grommet. “You’re just quiet today,” he observes as he rubber bands the needle into place. “I haven’t heard you brag _once_ about your team’s latest triumph—did you losea tournament or something?” 

“Merlin,” Arthur bites out, standing up to pace. “Mind your own damn business and do your job, will you?” 

“Just saying,” Merlin mumbles. In that moment, Morgana bustles up from the back holding a fresh stencil. Her eyes fall on Arthur and sweep up and down his body in a somewhat unabashed once-over, before she turns to Merlin and mouths _is that him?!_

 _Yes! Go away!_ Merlin mouths back, feeling his cheeks flush as she very smugly gathers her things and plops down at her station to set up for her next appointment. His insides twist as he finishes filling his ink cap, folding his paper towels, sucking the smell of green soap in with a wavering breath before turning to Arthur. “Stencil time,” he says with very awkward and overly cheery enthusiasm, trying his hardest and failing to be _normal_.

Arthur is not amused. He methodically rolls up his sleeve, frowning as Merlin shaves and sanitizes him before gently applying the stencil with prudent fingers. Merlin can feel Arthur’s blood thrum in his wrist under the press of hands, and it makes his mouth dry, his blood speed. _God._ Fuck. _I’m not in love with him,_ Merlin thinks as willfully as he possibly can. 

It takes a few tries to get the stencil right this time. Anything long and straight is difficult but especially over the cords in the wrist. Merlin keeps having to scrub the print off with alcohol, and there’s a faint purple halo on Arthur’s skin surrounding the outline of the sword once they _finally_ agree it looks straight. “If I didn’t have evidence on my body that you’re a decent tattoo artist, I’d _truly b_ e wondering if you knew what you were doing right now,” Arthur quips dryly as he examines the design in the mirror, flexing his fingers and tensing his arm until he's satisfied. 

“S’not _my_ fault you’ve only gotten straight-forward, easy tattoos up until now,” Merlin tells him. “Sometimes the stencil takes more time than the tattoo itself. You’re lucky I haven't had to redo your stencils before.” 

Normally they’d joke back and forth like this for the duration of the tattoo, but Arthur is stony silent again as Merlin changes his gloves one last time and takes his machine in hand, kicking his foot switch on and adjusting the power until he’s got a decent, steady, rumbling buzz. “Ready?” he asks. 

Arthur sighs. “Get on with it.” 

He's finished half the outline when Arthur suddenly blurts, “So. My dad is kicking me out.” 

Merlin coughs, trying to school his shock at Arthur’s sudden confession. “You live with your dad?” 

“No! I mean—not technically. He owns a bunch of posh flats around London, and I rent one. Only I don’t pay rent, I just live there.” 

“Oh. Well. That must be really nice,” Merlin offers, continuing to drag a long line, even though Arthur is clearly wincing. Serves him right for being a spoiled rich brat, he thinks. 

“It _was_ nice, until we had a fight and he cut me off,” he grits out through his teeth. “ _Ow.”_

“Was the fight about your tattoos?” Merlin asks, wiping the build up of blood and glide and ink from Arthur’s skin none too gently. “Is he going to come beat me up for marring his pristine baby boy?” 

“Shut up. No. It wasn’t about the tattoos—not entirely, anyway. It’s been a build up of a hundred things, I guess. We’ve been butting heads over politics for the last few years because….well. He’s sort of—ah. He’s not a very good father. Or man, in general,” Arthur admits, the words coming out sharp and clumsy and stilted at the end, like it hurts to confess something so personal, like each sentence leaves thorns in his mouth. “I thought perhaps we could get on anyway and just not _talk_ about all the things we disagree on, but. I’ve spent too many years turning the other way and pretending I don’t see who he is. And in some ways, that's just as shitty as _being_ like him. So, I confronted him. And he cut me off. And here I am, blowing another two hundred quid on a tattoo because it’s the only fucking thing in the world that I’ve done for _me,_ and me alone.” 

Merlin is quiet for a moment, feeling almost _guilty_ for how much shit he’s talked about Arthur’s growing collection of embarrassing, unoriginal tattoos. They clearly mean a lot to him. He swallows thickly. “Good for you,” he manages to say. “So, where are you going to go?” 

Arthur sighs, low and long. “I don’t know. I’ve never had to do _anything_ on my own. It feels awful, but—I suppose it might be good for me.” 

Merlin nods, finishing up the outline and wetting down a fresh paper towel to wipe Arthur’s skin clean before trading the liner for his rotary since he prefers it for details. It’s a much quieter machine, and as he starts it up, he feels oddly exposed without the comforting weight and buzz of the coil in his hand. He clears his throat tensely and dives back in. “Maybe it’ll build character, and you won’t be such a prat.” 

“Fuck you,” Arthur says, but there’s no real venom to it. He might even be smiling. Merlin is not certain because he doesn't look up, carefully spreading the skin and focusing on the fine, crisp lines he’s using to shade the blade. 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t threaten a man putting needles in your skin,” he mumbles. “Do you think you’ll get your own flat?” 

Arthur shrugs, which is annoying because it moves his arm in such a way that Merlin has to reel back suddenly. Arthur is one of those clients who is so unperturbed by the pain that he forgets he’s being tattooed and starts gesturing and wiggling around. It’s annoying, mostly, but also sort of charming. Perhaps because Merlin rather enjoys holding him down. _I’m not in love with him,_ he thinks with a frown, stipple-shading the handle of the sword with a series of tiny, uniform dots. “Maybe,” Arthur half-groans. “Or I could move in with the lads from my team and embrace the real bachelor experience. Eating ramen…sleeping on a blow-up mattress on the floor…adding protein powder to my morning cuppa and calling it a balanced meal….circuit training in a home gym…you know the drill.” 

Merlin snorts. “M’afraid I don’t. I never lived like that, cheap and dirty with a bunch of other blokes. Morgana has been my flatmate since uni. We burn incense and read each other's tarot cards every new moon. It’s nice.” 

Arthur’s laugh sounds more like a bark. “Should have known you have witchy girls’ nights with your bestie and have never done a day of lifting in your life,” he drawls fondly, twitching under the needle as Merlin touches up the mostly finished tattoo. Merlin forces his smile into a flat line, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

“Morgana is actually moving out soon, getting a flat with her girlfriend. M’gonna have to find someone to move in. Maybe he’ll be an insufferable jock who transforms my kitchen into a weight room, and I’ll be forced to dust off his kettle bells and keep muscle milk in the pantry,” he says. And then he realizes it sounds like he’s perhaps inviting Arthur to come _live_ with him, and so he panics, adding, “But I fucking hope not.” 

“Well then,” Arthur says, gazing down at Merlin with those twinkling eyes that burn holes into his skin, make him squirm beneath the scrutiny. “Sounds like the new year will be providing exciting living situations to the both of us.” 

Merlin wipes the new tattoo down one last time, Arthur’s skin pink and angry beneath the ink-speckled white of the dirty paper towel. “You’re done,” he says, jaw aching with how tight he’d been clenching it without even realizing. “Go check it out in the mirror.” 

Arthur does, and he gives Merlin an extra large tip after the fact. Before he leaves the shop, he shrugs on his jacket and somehow comes at Merlin like a storm once his arms are in the sleeves. He surrounds him, enveloping him, and Merlin is _so_ certain he’s about to be struck from two directions before he realizes, with horror, that this is actually just a _hug._ Arthur is fucking hugging him, right there on the welcome mat, where the obsidian skull and _Morgana_ can see them. He slaps his back and it’s over almost as soon as it starts, but still, he’s terribly shaken up. Arthur waves before disappearing out the door in a cloud of spearmint and old spice smell, wrapped in cellophane.

 _I’m not in love with him_ , Merlin lies _,_ cheeks burning as he spins on his heel, finger raised and pointing at Morgana before she can get a single word out. “ _Don’t,”_ he warns. 

She holds up her gloved hands in mock innocence, eyes wide and flashing. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

—-

Merlin does not see Arthur for another week, and the _whole_ time he replays their last conversation in his head repeatedly, wondering if he said something wrong, if he crossed too many lines. Tattooing is like bartending—people trust you with their secrets when they’re under the needle, they share things they wouldn’t otherwise, things they might not even tell their closest friends. It’s a vulnerable thing, letting someone scar your flesh with the things you deem important enough to immortalize. But after the fact, there’s no room for _friendship,_ even _if_ you’ve confessed like it’s mass _._ Merlin has return clients he knows a lot about, but he has no way of contacting them outside the appointment, and no desire to. It is a very specific and particular relationship that only exists here, within the walls of the shop.

But over the course of a month or so, he’s grown so terribly attached to Arthur Pendragon he feels _sick_ at the thought he might never see him again. 

So, when Arthur shows up at closing time on a stormy, busy Saturday, Merlin is overcome with such a powerful wave of relief he almost wants to cry. “Arthur,” he says, clutching his pencil tight enough he could snap it. “Hey.” 

Arthur shrugs off his jacket. “You said touch-ups were free, right?” he asks without looking at Merlin, carding a hand through his wet hair. 

“What do you need touched up?” Merlin asks, a bit defensive as he glances over to this station. He thought he was _done_ for the night, to be honest. He was just jotting down the last bit of information he needed for his books before heading out with Morgana and leaving Mordred and Elena to clean, but now—now he supposes he’s staying. To touch up his own work, even though he _very_ rarely has to do that unless the _client_ has done something stupid to fuck up the healing process. “What did you do?” 

Merlin is _fully_ expecting Arthur to say _nothing_ and insult him, but instead he shoulders his way in past the counter, shoving a half-dozen donuts into Merlin’s chest with one hand and grabbing the clipboard of consent forms with the other. “I was having a pint with the lads from my team last night and it turned into a few pints and—I don’t know. I picked all my scabs out, I guess.” 

Merlin glares, even though he _really_ enjoys a good donut. “You _picked_ your _scabs?_ That’s rule number _one_ on the aftercare sheet.” 

Arthur takes a maple bar out of the box and tears a bite off. “I know! But I was proper pissed. It was an accident. I’m here to fix it, aren’t I?” he says through a full mouth, spewing crumbs onto Merlin’s recently sanitized workstation. 

Merlin cannot even be irritated because he is too busy being relieved to see Arthur, flustered at how stupidly good he looks. Arthur’s glossy footie shorts are extra short today, his thighs spread extra wide as he sits there on Merlin’s table, taking up space like he belongs there. “Ugh. Let’s see it. Sometimes tattoos aren’t healed up enough after a week to go back in and fix them.” Merlin mumbles, carding a hand through his hair. “But I’ll see what I can do.” 

Arthur holds out his arm, and it’s not _too_ bad. Definitely not ideal, though, some of the skin drawn tight and shiny, puckered white in places with prematurely exposed scar tissue. He doesn’t really want to send Arthur out into the world like this with his tattoo all weird and busted—what if someone sees it and asks who did it, and Arthur declares _Merlin from Dragonlord_ without a second thought? It will make him look bad. It will make the _shop_ look bad. Merlin sighs. “Okay. I was _about_ to leave, but this shouldn’t take too long. I’ll set up.” Then his gaze darts down to the clipboard in Arthur’s lap, and he snatches it away. “You don’t need to fill this out for a touch-up.” 

“Great,” Arthur says, shoving the rest of the donut into his mouth and smiling with a bulge in his cheek. “I offer you verbal consent, instead.” 

Merlin’s cheeks are hot as he strips his gloves in favor of another pair and goes about wiping donut crumbs from his station. 

Arthur sits and watches him, arms crossed over his chest, head cocked. “I’ve been thinking about stuff too much lately,” he says, and Merlin has no fucking idea what that means, but his stomach drops. He invasively remembers the way Arthur _hugged_ him last time, those strong arms ever so briefly encircling him, pulling him close, crushing his ribs before letting him go. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, I guess. My dad, finding a place to live…other shit. I think I got drunk last night because I was trying to loosen up.” 

“Did it work?” Merlin forces out, trying to make casual conversation as he furiously rolls a plastic barrier sleeve down his clip cord, even though his heart is pounding so hard it's anything _but_ casual

“Not really,” Arthur drawls. “This is the only thing that _really_ helps me loosen up, when it comes down to it,” he adds, voice suddenly sounding far away, low, haunting. Like the bleat of a foghorn. “Getting tattooed.” 

It shouldn’t hit Merlin like a truck, but it does. He feels like fucking roadkill, hands tremulous and slick in their prison of nitrile as he fixes the needle to his aperture bar. “Oh? I hear tattoos are more expensive than therapy,” he jokes. 

Before Arthur can rise to the barb, Morgana bustles in from her station, hair tucked away in a beanie, black trench coat pulled tight around her body like she’s already out the door. When she sees Merlin is up here with Arthur, her mouth twists into a mischievous smile. “Staying late tonight, Merlin?” 

“Yep,” he says with a force, tight-lipped grin. “You can tell the apprentices to bounce. I’ll tidy up. I shouldn’t be too late.” 

She _grins_ at him, teeth impossibly white as she shoulders her way out the door and into the chill London night. “Have fun!” she leers at him. 

He rolls his eyes, tosses his gloves, and locks up the front. 

“Huh,” Arthur says. “I didn’t realize you were _closing.”_

 _“Well,_ we are. Hours are on the front of the shop, you know.” 

“I should have sent her home with the rest of the donuts,” Arthur says, peering into the oil-stained pink box at the remaining few. “ _You’re_ certainly not going to eat them all.” 

“I’m ready for you,” Merlin interjects, refusing to address the donot situation as he sucks in a sharp breath and snaps on another pair of gloves. They go on sticky and imperfect this time because his hands are too sweaty, and it takes him a few moments to adjust the fingers and tug everything into place. 

Arthur assumes the position, offers up his tender forearm, and Merlin tries his hardest to remember how to breathe. 

Arthur tenses as soon as the needle touches down. It’s likely because the skin is still tender and only half-healed from such a recent tattoo, and Merlin winces alongside him, hating how easy it is to tap into that very particular brand of primal, physical empathy where Arthur Pendragon is concerned. As his machine buzzes, it’s the only sound in the whole of the shop echoing from the walls, and it hits him that it’s _awkward_ to tattoo alone. No one else here to witness him, to give him a hard time, to roll up behind him in their chair and ask if he’d prefer Devo or Depeche Mode, or if he wants anything from Nandos. Just him, and Arthur, and the quiet pressing in like fog.

He does his best to clean up the damage, and Arthur does not speak to him until it’s over and he’s wrapping his swollen arm up. “Want a beer now that you’re officially off?” Arthur asks, examining his tattoo through the sheen of cellophane before his gaze flits up to hold Merlin’s, blue and—hopeful, maybe. Like he wants him to say yes. “I have a six-pack in my footie duffle.” 

Merlin should refuse. He should do a lot of things. But he’s exhausted and he’s lonely and he probably can’t even go home anyway because the threat of Gwen and Morgana canoodling on the couch is all too great. He also—he _wants_ to have a beer with Arthur, if he’s honest with himself. He’s desperate to spend as much time as possible with him, close to him, inhaling the smell of him as he leans closer. So, against his better judgement, he nods his head and says, “Sure. Why not.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Arthur crows, grinning as he unzips his bag and fishes out two bottles of Heineken. It’s not Merlin’s first choice, but he’ll take it. He’s realizing he’ll take a _lot_ , as long as it’s coming from Arthur’s hands, and their fingers brush together during the exchange. 

“Back on the horse?” Merlin asks, gesturing to Arthur’s beer before he uses the edge of his toolbox to pop the cap off his own. 

Arthur makes a face. “What _are_ you talking about?” 

Merlin reaches it out, flicks the green glass with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re _drinking._ After you got fucked up enough to ruin _my_ work last night.” 

Arthur shrugs, gazing down at his arm with an appraising, critical look. “Not _totally_ ruined, hopefully,” he says, thumbing around the irritated skin. “I _have_ been drinking too much lately, though, I’ll give you that” he admits then, sticking out his bottom lip, mouth twisting into something that is too guarded to be an honest-to-god pout but comes dangerously close. Merlin studies it as he takes a measured sip of beer, wrinkling his nose in mild disgust and resignation at how _warm_ it is. “Drinking too much comes with thinking too much,” Arthur adds. 

It’s the second time he’s mentioned _thinking_ about things this evening as if it’s something out of the ordinary that he rarely partakes in, and Merlin wonders if this means he’s supposed to ask him _what_ he’s thinking about. He knows he’s not getting paid to be Arthur Pendragon’s therapist (hell, he’s not even getting paid to touch up his work), but part of him—wants to know. Wants to press on the fact that _his_ needle in Arthur’s skin is part of his only solace, supposedly his only reprieve from the ways in which he seems to think his life is unraveling. “If you want to talk,” Merlin murmurs, throwing back more beer, grimacing at the burn. “I’m here. I don’t actually have anywhere to be tonight, so, uh. We can hang out.”

Arthur looks at him, eyes wide, face so suddenly soft, like he’s not used to people offering to listen. Then he tears his gaze away and studies the ink-spattered tile floor between his cleats. “Hm,” he says. “I imagine you had a terribly supportive mum and dad who were just fine? With all of this,” he says, gesturing clumsily to the wall of posters and flash, Merlin’s station papered in stickers, Merlin _himself,_ in his tattered band t-shirt, ripped skinny jeans, and full sleeves. He’s certain Arthur is not referring to anything _other_ than the tattoos and general goth aesthetic, but it makes his insides prickle and gather defensively all the same. 

“Mum, yes. I never knew my dad,” he explains. “He disappeared, walked out on us I think when I was a baby. M’not totally sure because my mum hates to talk about it. So, um, shitty dads’ club here, I suppose.” 

They clink their beers together in an awkward toast. After a moment of silence Arthur ventures, “M’beginning to realize that I think—I think the way my dad is doesn’t actually bother me because I’m like. Some good, caring, noble person,” he explains though a lopsided half-smile that _almost_ looks self-deprecating. “I think it’s because I take it _personally_. It feels more and more like all the fucked up, judgmental shit he says is actually _about me._ Even if it’s not. Even if he doesn’t see me that way.” 

Merlin is not certain he knows what Arthur is talking about, but he feels buzzy and anxious to hear it all the same, as if he is on the receiving end of some vast and terrible secret. He chews the inside of his cheek, the glass neck of his bottle pressed into his lower lip as he asks, “Is it? About you, I mean.” 

Arthur shrugs helplessly. “Dunno. Could be.” And then, as Merlin tries desperately to think of what he can say that is helpful without being invasive, all the while wondering if he’s supposed to _know_ what lies at the core of Arthur’s conflict with his father even though Arthur hasn’t really _told_ him, Arthur tilts his head back and _chugs_ the rest of his beer, throat bobbing until the entire thing is gone. Then he turns to Merlin and asks, “So, are you gay?” 

Merlin _feels_ the blood drain from his face, Arthur’s inquiry socking him in the stomach as he just _stands_ there, blanched and clutching his beer in a white-knuckled grip. “Um. Yeah,” he admits, no point in hiding it _now._ He wonders what gave him away—if it’s the AFI shirts, the Placebo poster over his station with Brian Molko looking pretty with his dick-sucking lips parted around a silent gasp, or if it’s something more embarrassing. Like the way he stares at Arthur’s ass, the way his hands shake before and after his tattoos. 

Arthur pops open another beer, nodding and looking unperturbed. “So, you go to gay bars?” 

Merlin scoffs, his heart pounding. “Sometimes. Or, I used to when I was a teenager. I mostly go dancing at goth bars with Morgana now, if I go out at all.” 

“Of course you do, I should have known,” Arthur says, the corner of his mouth turning up easily, fondly. “But, irrelevant to my query, which is, do you think if _I_ went to a gay bar, guys would be into me? Like, could I pull a guy?” 

Merlin accidentally chokes on his mouthful of Heineken and sprays it all over the floor. Arthur stares at him as he crouches down with a paper towel to furiously clean it up, cheeks burning and gaze fixed on the tile. He’s imagining Arthur at a gay bar, at how different his preppy, athletic clothes would appear in _that_ setting. How he really only looks so straight out in the wild but surrounded by other men, he would blend in fine, just another body to covet. It’s a weird thing to realize. “Um. Probably.” 

“Probably?!” Arthur says, throwing his head back, exposing the sharp, lovely ripple of his throat. Merlin’s whole body feels weird and tingly and surreal as he stands, his knees unsteady. “Harsh critic, Merlin, thanks for your brutal honesty.” 

It occurs to Merlin in that moment, then, that Arthur is asking him _sincerely._ That this is not a weird ego boost or compliment-fishing situation, he is _truly_ wondering if he could pick up another man at a gay bar if he tried. Because he is, perhaps, planning on trying. To piss off his dad or because he genuinely wants to suck a dick, Merlin is not sure. But the realization bowls him over, sticks in his chest like ice. He realizes he’s _jealous_ at the thought. That he doesn't want to imagine Arthur at a gay bar because he’s _certain,_ between the perfect ass and the perfectly _imperfect_ smile,he’d be _relentlessly_ hit on and have his pick of men at the end of the night. And none of them would be Merlin because Merlin doesn’t dance unless he’s very drunk and “The Killing Moon” or “Lucretia My Reflection” comes on sometime after 1 a.m. 

Merlin sets his beer down and scrubs a hand over his face. “Arthur, I don’t know why you’re asking me. I really don’t. But the truth is that you could absolutely pull literally any guy you wanted. You will have _no_ problem pulling men, you’re _insanely_ fit. The fittest man I’ve ever tattooed, if m’honest.” 

Arthur is quiet then, studying him as he rubs his thumb up and down the label of his beer bottle, face unreadable. “Fit but not your type?” he asks, cocking his head, something resigned and _sad,_ even, in the blue of his eyes. 

Merlin’s mouth floods, his blood races. He cannot fucking believe this is happening to him—he feels like he’s misreading the situation, like he’s dreaming, like he wanted Arthur so badly and thought about having him so many times that he somehow altered the fabric of reality and presented himself with this impossible situation. He chokes out a nervous, incredulous laugh. “Arthur—you’re like, _textbook_ my type. So much so it was probably unprofessional for me to agree to tattoo you in the first place, I should have said no, I should have—”

“I’m glad you tattooed me,” Arthur says simply, setting his beer down on the floor and righting himself, stepping in toward Merlin, backing him up against his station, boxing him in with his feet. Merlin assumed Arthur was a little taller than him, but as they stand close like this, he realizes they’re the same height, eye to eye, and he cannot escape the scald of warm blue bearing into him, sweeping over his face, half-lidded and terrifying and full of promise. He swallows thickly and lays a tremulous hand on Arthur’s cheek, just to be sure this is exactly what he thinks it is. 

Arthur leans into the heat of his palms, eyes fluttering closed and a sigh on his lips, and _fuck,_ Merlin can’t take it anymore. He leans in and kisses him, soft and careful at first, like he’s asking a question, but then deep and dirty because Arthur clearly wants it that way, hooking an arm around the back of his neck immediately and pulling their bodies flush, tongue prodding him open, splitting him along a seam. 

He tastes like salt and Heineken and fear and fire. Merlin moans into the heat of his mouth, thumbing along his jaw, hungry for _more,_ for _anything_ , for whatever Arthur is willing to give. The cold, sharp edge of his toolbox bites into his thighs as Arthur pushes him up against it, holding him in place as he kisses him rough and relentless, like he’s convinced Merlin will disappear if he lets him get a breath in. 

Merlin is dizzy when they finally break apart, gasping. Arthur rubs the swollen pout of his mouth with his thumb, gaze fixed on it as he huffs out, “I don’t want anymore tattoos.” 

“What?” Merlin mumbles, lost, distracted away from whatever Arthur is saying by the way he _feels._ Strength and solidity under his own palms, hard muscle under a layer of wonderful softness. He palms over Arthur’s sides, his stomach, his arms, so overwhelmed that his teeth are chattering, pulse racing beneath Arthur’s tongue as he licks up the cords of his neck. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Arthur hisses, sucking at the hinge of Merlin’s jaw. “I love all the ones I've gotten. I love that you gave them to me. But after the last one, I realized I—I just kept coming back so I could look at your _mouth,”_ he admits, hauling Merlin in again to kiss him fiercely, sucking and biting at his lips, so possessive and hungry it makes Merlin shudder in overwhelm, fists curling in Arthur’s hair and tugging at it. They break away with a gasp. “It’s so _pink._ Fucks me up,” Arthur says, pressing their brows together so he can flick his tongue over the peak of Merlin’s swollen lips. “I got drunk and scraped the scabs off my tattoo _just_ so I could have an excuse to see you again. S’mad.” 

“What the fuck,” Merlin hisses, pawing down Arthur’s back, memorizing the jut of his scapulae, the shift of muscle over bone. “You _could_ have come in to see me _without_ messing with my tattoo. You could have, like. Asked me for my number like a normal person.” 

Arthur bites him on the neck, hard enough that he yelps, pulls his hair in warning, cock throbbing in his jeans as Arthur ruts against him. “I didn’t know if guys _did_ that! If it was allowed,” Arthur explains. “I thought maybe gay blokes had their own rules.” 

“Oh my god, come here, you’re hopeless,” Merlin laughs, cupping Arthur’s flushed, stubble-rough face and dragging him into kiss again and again, until his chin is spit-wet and his cock is so painfully hard he feels bold enough to touch Arthur’s ass. 

It’s like a religious experience. He palms it through his shorts, squeezing it in greedy fistfuls, and luckily it just urges Arthur to thrust against him, which is refreshing. Sometimes guys like Arthur are okay with stuff _up until_ their asses are involved, and then they dissolve into a sudden panic, but Arthur seems zero percent deterred as he roughs his way down Merlin’s neck, marking him up like they’re both teenagers. “I want to suck you,” Merlin huffs out against the shell of Arthur’s ear, pushing his thumb beneath the elastic of his shorts to touch his thigh, move the golden hair against the grain. 

Merlin _feels_ Arthur’s cock twitch and flex against his thigh, his breath catch in his throat. “I’m sweaty from practice.” 

“Good,” Merlin declares, stomach dropping as he shoves Arthur off, steers him to his massage table. “I want to suck your sweaty cock.” 

Arthur laughs breathlessly, eyes bright, smile so wide and impossible that Merlin feels like his chest is being split open just looking at it. He drops to his knees between Arthur’s spread thighs and mouths over his erection through his shorts, inhaling the scent of his arousal, sharp and heady. 

“Fuck,” Arthur chokes out, hands in Merlin’s hair, worrying the bottle-black strands through his fingers. 

Merlin looks up at him, loving his astounded eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide and helpless and black, lashes clotted in overwhelmed tears as Merlin sucks a wet spot into the red nylon of his shorts. He can tell Arthur is big, the shape of him thick and fat through the fabric, but his stomach still drops when he gets his cock out and hooks his elastic beneath the weight of his balls. “Jesus,” he murmurs, smearing the slickness at the tip before sucking it from his fingers, his own cock twitching at the musky bitterness on his tongue. “So hot.” He kisses light and teasing, burning up in Arthur’s attentive, half-lidded gaze. “Have you thought about fucking my mouth?” he asks, stroking his length, rolling his foreskin down to expose the red crown as he drools into Arthur’s dark pubes. 

“Yes. Of fucking _course_ I have,” Arthur says, hooking a thumb into Melrlin’s mouth and feeling the inside of his cheek experimentally. “It’s so pretty. Shouldn’t be real.” 

Merlin wonders if this is some sort of accomplishment he can check off a theoretical list: spurring a man into a full-blown sexuality crisis with his lips alone. He’s very smug and proud of himself as he teases, kissing Arthur’s thighs, using his teeth, smoothing over the sting with his tongue before finally taking mercy upon Arthur and sucking his cock down his throat. 

Arthur gasps, quads spasming beneath the greedy spread of Merlin’s palm. He curses as Merlin sucks him, releasing the hold he had at the back of his skull to grip the edge of the table, white-knuckled and vice-tight, like he’s already holding back, already teetering on a precipice. Merlin makes it extra sloppy for him. He laves his tongue, frothing thick spit to lubricate his fist as he strokes the base and plays with Arthur’s balls, tracking his every motion to learn what he likes. It seems that he likes _everything_ , though, if the sounds he’s making are any indication. He’s so _in_ it, watching Merlin the whole time with his eyes forced open into pained slits, hips thrusting in reflexive, desperate flickers. “I’m gonna come,” he chokes out eventually through grit teeth. “If you want to— _ah—_ fuck.” 

Merlin hums, chokes himself, gags, swallows. He’s dizzy when he pulls off, static eclipsing his vision and his knees aching from the tile, though not _half_ as much as his cock, which is throbbing against the flies of his too-tight jeans. He’s not expecting Arthur to reciprocate, but he _does_ need to get off, so he stands and unbuckles his belt, pulling himself out while Arthur sits there slumped on the massage table, trying to catch his breath, looking impossible sexy and debauched with his cock still out of his shorts and his hair a sweaty wreck. “God,” he says, gaze climbing up and down Merlin’s body as he shucks his ripped-up skinnies down pale, tattooed thighs. “Come here.” 

After kicking out of his pants, Merlin straddles Arthur on the table, climbing up into his lap and kissing him deep, forcing him to taste his own come whether he likes it or not. He doesn’t protest, though, which is a good sign. “Do you want to touch me?” Merlin whispers, pressing his forehead to Arthur’s, their skin adhered with a thin layer of sweat. “You don’t have to.”

Arthur holds onto Merlin’s narrow hips with bruising force, staring down at his cock as it flags red and dripping against his stomach. “I think so,” he says before taking it in hand, grip uncertain before it tightens into something firm. “Fuck. Yes.” 

“Good. Kiss me,” Merlin demands, catching Arthur’s mouth with his own and licking him apart, fucking past his lips with his tongue and grinding against him, fucking the perfect, filthy-hot ring of his fist. Arthur jacks him off clumsily with one hand, rubbing experimentally all over this body with the other. Eventually he pulls back from their kiss just to _watch_ himself, the way his fingers are roving up Merlin’s chest, down his sides, across his thighs with hungry, experimental pressure. If Merlin didn’t already know Arthur had never touched a man, the awe-stricken longing in his hands would give him away. He’s so blatantly curious, so ripped open and raw. Merlin rides the thrill of it, reaches down between their bodies, and touches himself alongside Arthur, showing him how he likes it, letting him study and learn from the motion. It pays off, and Arthur finishes him easily, gasping as Merlin spills over his fist and onto his jersey, teeth in the meat of his shoulder to stifle a groan. 

It’s only then, after the orgasm high wears off into a faint buzz, that Merlin realizes he just _fucked Arthur Pendragon_ at the shop, _at his station._ He’s never done that before. He’s never even thought about it. It’s insanely hot and totally unbelievable, and as he tucks himself back into his jeans and rolls off Arthur, he _cannot_ stop grinning. He collapses on his back so that he can lay down and stare at the ceiling, hand over his mouth, mind a complete mess but at least _trying_ to make sense of the unexpected direction this evening has taken. He closes his eyes, but he can still feel Arthur watching him, sitting beside him there on the massage table after rescuing his beer from the floor and taking a sip.

“So,” Merlin says, almost conversationally, turning his head and staring at Arthur’s handsome profile. “Are you going to go to a gay bar and try to pull a guy now that you know how easily you can?” 

Arthur smirks down at him and reaches over, idly tracing his fingers over the dagger tattoo on Merlin’s flat white stomach, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. “No,” he says, rubbing up to the sparse hair on Merlin’s chest, gaze downcast, careful…sweet, even. Merlin smiles, heart picking up beneath the gentle pressure of Arthur’s callous-rough fingers. “I was going to ask you to come to a pub with me, maybe. Or, if you’re hungry, there’s a 24-hour spot in Soho. They serve breakfast all day long, have the _best_ eggs Benedict. You haven’t fucking lived until you’ve had eggs Benedict at midnight.” 

Merlin curls his fingers around Arthur’s wrist, smoothing gently over the bone. “Alright,” he says, throat tight with how badly he wants this—not just Arthur’s cock in his mouth, his firm grip, his desperate kisses—but _him._ His bad beers and crass, too-forward way of talking and exploratory, nervous hands. “I love untimely breakfast food, actually.” 

Arthur frowns then, the sugar of his smile hardening into something resolute as his gaze darkens. “Hey,” he says, pulling his hand back and bracing it on the massage table, draining the rest of his beer in a thick swallow. “I know this is probably just sex for you, and that you have better things to do than fuck some client of yours with no experience, but. Um. I feel like I should be honest about something.” 

Merlin rolls over and sits up, scooting closer to Arthur and crossing their ankles like swords so he’ll stop swinging his legs so violently and making him nervous. “About what?” he asks, even though what he _really_ wants to say is _I don’t actually have anything better to do. You are the best thing I've ever had._

Arthur’s gaze is a firm, flint-black thing, fixed on the opposite wall as he stares ahead of himself in favor of looking at Merlin. “I actually like you, Merlin,” he says then, making a wide-eyed, incredulous face as the confession leaves his lips, like he’s _just_ as shocked by this news as he anticipates Merlin to be. “I _do_ think about fucking your mouth, that’s the truth, but I also—I want to know you, I guess. I want to know what the stickers on your tattoo-thing are from and what music you listen to and— _god,”_ he grumbles, rubbing his face with both hands for a moment like he’s trying to blot out a stain. “It’s insane.” 

“Tell me,” Merlin says, reaching out and digging his thumb into the ditch of Arthur’s waist and smiling, so elated he can hardly breathe. “C’mon.” 

“I—ugh. When I _shower,_ I think about conversations we’ve had, or could have. I play them through my head. And when I buy clothes, I wonder, _if I wear this to my next appointment, will Merlin look at me? Will he like it?_ And when Ieat breakfast, I wonder, _is Merlin a beans on toast guy, or not?_ And I just. I think about you all the time. It’s absolutely mad, I _hate_ it.” 

Melin’s grin actually _hurts,_ it’s so wide. “That’s very cute,” he says, knowing full well that Arthur will probably hate being called cute but doing it anyway because he likes riling him up, putting him in his place. He thinks he needs that. “I do like a good beans on toast, by the way. And I look at you in absolutely everything you wear, so you don’t have to worry about that bit.” 

That perks Arthur up enough to shoot Merlin a smug look instead of just sitting there grimacing like he’s in pain. “I noticed. But I also thought I might be making it up because I liked the idea of you looking at me…I _wanted_ you to look at me.” Then he shakes his head, staring at Merlin like he cannot fucking believe any of this before reaching out and touching his hair, making a fist in the black of it, and tugging him closer, so that Merlin’s chin bumps against his shoulder. “I thought maybe I was just lonely and wanted to be your friend, or something. At the same time, I consciously, _consciously,_ thought about fucking you. I sort of tried to have these things coexist in my brain, but now. I’m pretty sure what I actually want is, like. For you to be my boyfriend, or whatever.” Merlin just stares at him, every word he could possibly force out irreparably stuck in his throat. Arthur coughs. “I know I sound crazy. You can say no.” 

And Merlin _absolutely_ does not want to say no. He wants to say _yes,_ fucking _yes,_ over and over again until his throat is hoarse and Arthur is sick of the sound of his voice. But he can’t make any sound come out at all, so instead of speaking, he just makes a fist in Arthur’s jersey and yanks him over to kiss. Arthur goes willingly, cups Merlin’s face, pushes needy fingers into his hair, and touches him, rough and possessive, with such hunger that Merlin feels like the world is wild and ripe with possibility. “I know _I_ sound crazy,” he murmurs as they break apart with a wet, obscene sound. “But hear me out. You know how I told you my flatmate was gonna move out any day, and that I’d have an empty room and rent I couldn’t afford?” 

“Mhm,” Arthur mumbles, nose pressed into Merlin’s hair, inhaling him in greedy lungfuls, probably half-listening at best. Merlin shivers beneath the heat of Arther’s very encouraging single-minded attention, then presses on. 

“You should move in with me,” he says softly. “I know—I know it's a lot, but we can take things as slow as you wanted, on this front. And as a living situation. Well. There’s a real bed instead of an air mattress and no protein powder to speak of and I’d cook you things much better than ramen, I promise.” 

Arthur reels back to look at him, and he’s smiling that smile: wild, boundless, moor-wide, _young._ Merlin cannot help but return it. “I will move in, under one condition,” he says. 

Merlin shakes his head. “Name it.” 

“You read my tarot cards on the new moon and promise to assist me in pissing my father off as much as humanly possible,” Arthur says, quirking one eyebrow up into such a lovely arc that Merlin has to kiss it, wet and sweet. 

“It’s a deal,” he murmurs against skin. “Let’s get some midnight eggs.” 


End file.
